


Coming Home

by daleksanddetectives



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, John is a Very Good Doctor, Post-Reichenbach, Reunion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-30
Updated: 2012-11-30
Packaged: 2017-11-19 22:00:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/578109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daleksanddetectives/pseuds/daleksanddetectives
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the fall, John goes back into full time work as a doctor in a local hospital. One evening a man going by the name John Smith turns up, unconscious, feverish, and with a bullet wound. Who exactly is he and why does he look so familiar?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coming Home

**Author's Note:**

> wheew, I think this fic shows I've been watching way too much House MD.

“ _Please could Doctor Watson make his way to the A &E department immediately, Doctor Watson to A&E_,” a shrill voice calls over the hospital PA system.

John sighs and puts his paperwork to the side. He stands and grabs his white coat and cane from the hook by the door, glances around his office and sets off for the emergency room. Several nursesand doctors nod and smile at him as he marches through the corridors, his cane clicking against the floor with each step. He’d managed to gain a lot of respect in the few months since he’d started working there. At first John believed them all to know who he was from the now long forgotten blog, but in actuality in his first week he'd saved a child having a severe nut allergy reaction and bandaged up the teenager who had fallen at school and banged their head, both while still being able to check on all his other patients without having to work overtime. Of course they all knew of his relationship with the late Sherlock Holmes, most of London had kept up to date with the blog, and it didn’t take a genius to realise why John had been working so hard since his arrival.

Just as John arrives at the A&E, he bumps into Doctor King, who had become one of his drinking partners during his time working there.

“Good to see you, John,” King smiles, “about the patient they just brought in, you were called for him weren’t you?”

John nods.

“I hope you don’t mind, but I was there and managed to get him settled and sorted for now. I think he’ll need to stay for a few nights _at least_ , but... well, you'll see. They managed to get him cleaned up quite well in the ambulance and surgery went well, but he’s your patient now,” King bumps John’s arm, and pushes a thin file into his arms before walking away to speak with a nurse.

John shakes his head and opens the folder.

“John Smith?” He says aloud. Shrugging, he reads the rest of the information.

_Name: John Smith_

_Age: approx. 36_

_Gunshot wound to right shoulder. Passed out from blood loss. Feverish. No ID. One credit card with name of SMITH, JOHN. (Ambulance called by DI Greg Lestrade, Scotland Yard.)_

_Room: 22B_

John frowns at not only the lack of information, but also the familiar name of Greg Lestrade. He hadn’t seen Greg in a while, _at least he didn’t lose his job after everything that happened with Sherlock and Moriarty_ , he thinks, shivering at the memory. In a way, that was the reason he had started working at the hospital. He had only been doing a few hours a week at the surgery, and he felt as though he needed to fill up his time somehow (and find something more permanent, that would help pay the bills and rent), rather than mope about the flat, feeling sorry for himself. He’d gone back to the NHS. He couldn’t go back to Bart’s. Not with all the history between himself and the building, so he’d found another hospital, one not too far away from Baker Street and wanted someone with John's training (and would accept him, psychosomatic limp and all).

Sighing, John taps a passing paramedic, asking Mr Smith’s whereabouts.

"Taken up to his room, Doctor Watson. He's hooked up to the IVs and'll probably be out cold for a little while yet."

John nods, "cheers."

He sets off for the second floor and when he reaches the room, he politely knocks, just in case the man had woken up. At no sign of movement, John opens the door and spots the blonde, thin man in the bed, definitely unconscious. The heart monitor beeping steadily. John checks the chart at the end of the bed, hoping for more details about the man, and finds nothing he didn’t already know. He sighs and puts it back; he might as well take a closer look while Smith is sleeping. He steps to the bedside, quickly checking the heart monitors and drips. He gasps when he sees the man’s face close up.

“Sherlock?” He breathes. He leans closer to take a closer look at the man’s face, _it can’t be. Sherlock is dead. He just looks a lot like him. Is he a relative?_

Suddenly, Smith blinks awake and frantically looks around the room. Eventually his grey eyes settle on John, widening with what appears to be fear and quite possibly guilt.

“That is you, isn’t it? Sherlock? I’m not losing my mind, am I?”

He coughs and winces, unsure of what to say. He settles with, “I’m sorry, John. I wish this had happened differently.”

John's chest puffs up, “you’re a real dick, you know that? I thought I was your _friend_ , but no, you’re Sherlock Holmes, the genius. And what am I? The idiotic sidekick? Did you get bored of me? Was there no other way out?” John sneers, “I believed in you. I thought you were dead.”

Sherlock’s eyes widen. He tries to sit up, but quickly gives up, groaning and clutches at his bandaged shoulder, “it was for your safety, John. Moriarty had snipers aiming at your head. It was my life or yours and I couldn’t let you die,” he snaps.

John opens his mouth again to hurl abuse back, but Sherlock stops him.

“Leave, John. Go see to your other patients. I’ll be fine. Mycroft will have me discharged by the morning. I can take care of myself.”

John snatches Sherlock’s, or John Smith’s, file and waves it, “do you have any idea how lucky you are to be alive right now? Just one centimetre to the left, and that bullet could have actually killed you,” he leaves the file on the table and limps towards the door, “sod this. I’ll be back in the morning for a check-up. Don't sneak off anywhere or we'll just drag you back.”

He slams the door.

Sometime in the early morning, when John's temper cooled down, he sits in the plastic chair by Sherlock’s bedside and studies his friend’s sleeping face. He’s a lot thinner than the last time John saw him, his cheekbones startlingly prominent. There’s also faint stubble on his cheeks, something John had never been sure Sherlock could grow. His hair is longer and greasy, the roots are dark brown and the rest dirty blonde. John is too preoccupied to notice when Sherlock has woken, studying John in much the same way. 

“Have you been eating at all?” John tries to joke.

Sherlock’s eyebrows pull together. He stays silent.

“Listen, I’m sorry for my outburst earlier. I was just really upset and annoyed, alright? I still am. I watched you fall, I thought you were _dead_.”

Sherlock sighs, “I am sorry, you know. I didn’t mean for it to go this way.”

He looks at John’s hand and lifts his own. John takes it and starts rubbing comforting circles on Sherlock’s palm.

“I had to go. Moriarty’s web was large and I had to bring it down, branch by branch, by myself. I successfully broke down the seven spread across Europe and only had the London branch left. The assassin, Moran, shot me as he was being arrested. He had a spare gun on him, which I had failed to notice and remove. I believe Lestrade had me brought here, not knowing you now work here.”

“Eight months, Sherlock. You could have come to me, told me in secret?”

“No, it was too dangerous. I also didn’t think that it would take this long. I was hoping to be home within six.”

John gives him a smile, “and how were you going to do that? Waltz back into 221b, ‘Hello John! I’m not actually dead, make me a cuppa and some toast would you? I’m starved!’”

Sherlock drops his eyes to their joined hands and stays silent.

“Did Greg recognise you when he found you?”

“Mycroft informed him when I returned to London and he was helping the arrests. That way I would be able to carry out my plans under the police radar.”

“So Greg knew you were alive and I didn’t. That’s lovely. Look, this isn’t something I can just adjust to. I carried your coffin. I buried you. I mourned. I--” he rubs his face with his free hand and lets out a shaky breath, “I’m still mourning, in a way.”

“I am sorry. It had to be done.”

“Just, give me some time,” John shakes his head, “we can work this out. Eventually, yeah?”

Sherlock smiles and gives John’s hand a squeeze.

They sit, quietly comfortable in each other’s company for a few minutes, when Sherlock smirks and looks down at his bandaged shoulder, “we match.”

“Hm?”

“We match. Our shoulders, I mean.”

John chuckles, fiddling with the grip on his cane, “I suppose so, trust you to point that out.”

Sherlock grins, his first genuine smile since his fall.

_I’m finally home._


End file.
